A nascent hypothesis about Amber's employers had formed around the irritant of her presence - an altogether dull hypothesis but most likely the truth. He'd meant to do a lot of things towards the proving of it, just to get it (and her) out of his head. But things escalated so quickly and with such intensity that he'd found himself entirely occupied fetching towels and Salvo-Gel and relaying vitals to dispatchers. He hadn't checked her coat pockets when he'd had the opportunity. So there it was, the coat, still draped over the back of the chair.
The moment he set eyes on Amber in her bright red coat, he saw that she had refused to spend money on anything related to her pregnancy. The coat was only the outermost layer of things not designed to accommodate pregnancy. Of course it made sense now he knew Amber's mother was dead - had died before the surrogate pregnancy had been able to benefit either of them.
The coat was the color of cherries (and of the lipstick in her makeup bag). It was at least three years old, and most of the hard wear had been in the past month here in London. Milder winters where she was from. Wool blend, made in Sri Lanka. Simple trench style, two of the buttons had come off at some point, sewn back on, clumsily, in a thread that didn't quite match. It smelled of the street and of close places and of those over-scented complimentary bath products from the hotel. She'd chosen the coat in happier times, partly for the brand name "London Fog," a sentiment about a place she'd hoped to see, or a person she longed to meet - an idealized fantasy figure, likely her father based on the two passports.
Besom pockets, but roomy. The Peruvian hat was stuffed into one of them and the other had gloves, but he'd seen what trouble it'd been for her to bend or reach. Easy pockets to slide a hand into if she needed something important on the spur. Yet she hadn't kept her mobile in it. Unless she had another, a prepay mobile just for—
John came barreling through the door at that moment and read Sherlock's expression all wrong (guilty, caught-in-the-act), and snatched the coat out of his hands.
"They're taking her to UCH," he said. "She needs her ID."
She probably didn't need her coat at that moment but whatever. Sherlock scooped up Amber's wallet and handed it to him. John cast a hurried though baleful eye at the mess of her belongings still on the floor. "I guess the rest can wait. I'm riding along." And then he was shooting back down and outside and away with the sirens.
Sherlock couldn't understand why John was so invested in this girl so quickly, even given his proclivities towards big-eyed damsels in distress. But seeing as Sherlock had nothing else on and all her stuff still littered the floor, he might as well look through her phone contacts, her texts and message logs, maybe make a few calls of his own.
He really really had intended to do that.
But then Molly rang him - her actual voice squeaking in his ear, a body dropped in her lap, not literally, ha ha ha and get this, oh my god! anaphylaxis from stinging ants! Which was quite rare, especially in England. Of course, he had to go see. He practically tripped over Amber's cases on the way out. Anaphylaxis proved to be an elaborate cover for a rather sad little murder, which was a great improvement on the evening.
"I can't find her cases. Do you know what happened to them?"
Cases. The stinging ants had led Sherlock in an interesting direction about an unsolved kidnapping case from 2007, wife paid ransom, kidnappers disappeared, husband's body never found though Sherlock had a pretty good inkling where it might be found now.
He hadn't been on his game back then because—well, he was clean now, so that was not at issue. And, given other developments slowly coming to a bubble about town, he suspected he'd be hearing from the Yard before the end of the day. He flicked a glance at John who had his coat on, keys in hand, Amber's backpack slung over one shoulder and a mild expression of irritation on his face. Why? What now? "What?"
"Those two cases that were in the entry? One was a big wheelie and the other like a carry-on thing? Ugly yellow plaid? Oh for fuck's sake, Sherlock! Amber's luggage, what did you do with it?"
"I didn't do anything with it. Ask Mrs. Hudson."
"She's out. I was going take them with me. I'm off to see Amber in hospital."
"Yes, I'd cleverly deduced that part." He lifted his rear off the sofa just enough to slip his mobile into the pocket of his trousers then flopped back down again.
John's gaze searched the floor like a landmine sweeper. "I trust I've got everything you took out?" He touched the strap of the backpack.
Oh. Well. Except for the day planner with the addresses and phone numbers in it. He'd put that into the pocket of his coat last night in case Molly's excitement about stinging ants proved unwarranted.
"I should have picked up after. Sorry." Apologies were golden in situations like these.
"That's all right," John said. "You had good intentions. Probably."
Yes!
"I don't suppose you'd care to join me?"
Sherlock suppressed a shudder. Unsuccessfully. "I've seen more of that woman's business than I care to see of any woman for the rest of my life. Possibly longer."
John chuckled softly. "Yeah, the, uh, the business doesn't look like that most of the time."
"I am familiar with how the business usually looks, John."
"Huh." Oh dear god, he'd done it now. John's tiny antennae were unfurled, waving about and tasting the air for hints of history. "O-kay. But for clarity, are we talking about a living woman? I mean a live female woman? Because, you know, dead bodies? Not really how the business usually looks, either. Completely different viewing experience, live. Just, FYI."
FYI? Really? Oh, and isn't the good doctor confident of his superior knowledge in this department? Smug twat.
Sherlock swung his legs over the edge of the sofa, planted his feet firmly on the floor and slapped his knees in readiness. "Know what? I've changed my mind." He gave John his sunniest and most disarming smile. "I'm anxious to see the results of Amber's self-induced labour."
"I hope you're referring to babies right now."
When John returned to the main reception lobby, Sherlock was sat between a boy about ten or eleven years old, and a small girl, maybe four. The boy was deeply involved in a handheld video game judging by the loud, quick smacking of chewing gum, the slightly disturbing bouncing of his eyeballs, and the growls and grunts coming out of him. The girl was perched on her knees on the seat of the chair next to Sherlock, facing sideways, her little hands gripping the armrest, her body almost touching his shoulder. She wore a solemn look of concentration as she watched him manipulating the rolling, scrolling rush of information on the little screen of his Blackberry. Sherlock was either oblivious, ignoring her, or being uncharacteristically tolerant. The way he was slightly turned in his own seat in order to make it easier for her to watch, indicated the later. It was such a curious tableau that John got out his phone to snap a quick picture—
"Don't do it," Sherlock said with a sharp dart of his eyes. He noted the backpack still over John's shoulder. "She's not here anymore, I take it?"
"She's been moved. To a private facility. They won't tell me where."
"You mentioned the part about you being a doctor and saving her life and all that."
The little girl looked at John with keen interest from under a wispy fringe of fine brown hair. It was strangely unnerving. "Well, I don't know that I saved her life—"
"Stop being humble, it's unbecoming."
"Fine. I mentioned something to that effect, yes. I was then informed that she and the twins are doing well, and that they really shouldn't be telling me even that. Apparently any further information is under restriction at the request for privacy set by the family. You'd think it was the goddamned royal family the way they're-" He choked off the rest of the sentence, aware of the little girl's eyes still on him.
"The dads showed up then?" Sherlock said. "Good of them."
"You have a suspicious frown going."
"I knew I should have checked her coat pockets. If you hadn't been so grabby-"
"Yes, of course, my fault. Anyway, I also mentioned that I had some items of hers that she might need returned to her and they suggested I take it up with hospital administration." Sherlock groaned. They both knew what that meant.
Sherlock got to his feet, pocketed his device and shooed the little girl away wordlessly. She went to the boy and stood in front of his knees. When she realized he wasn't going to acknowledge her she draped her tiny body across his lap and stuck a thumb in her mouth. A small twitch of annoyance was the only rise she got out of him.
"Well, this won't do." Sherlock said. John wasn't sure if he meant the situation with the siblings, with Amber, or if it was a generic statement to no one in particular. Hands on his hips, the detective gnawed his lower lip a moment. Then he leaned forward and snapped his fingers in the boy's face. "Oi. Marcus. I need a piece of gum."
The little girl straightened immediately and pushed on her brother's legs to get his attention. The boy, Marcus, looked up from his game with the same glassy-eyed blank confusion that every gamer wears upon being rudely pulled from the virtual world. The inevitable irritation at being interrupted settled between his brows. "Wot?"
"I need a piece of gum."
Marcus blinked a couple of times, staring at Sherlock's outstretched hand.
The little girl shoved against his knees again. "He needs gum," she whispered with solemn urgency. "Give him gum."
"I've only got one piece left!"
"Yes, and you'll give it over or I'll tell your mum you let a strange man look after your sister while you played Drill Dozer."
Marcus's eyes got very round then. He dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a tiny, slightly bent stick of gum barely covered by paper and mostly by lint. He slapped it into Sherlock's waiting palm with a glower. Everything was so unfair at that age.
Sherlock removed the paper and stuck the gum in his mouth, chewing vigorously. John waited for clarification, but even less was forthcoming as Sherlock headed towards the lifts, tossing John his greatcoat, and pulling his shirt tails out of his trousers as he walked. While they waited for the lift doors to open, he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. "I do believe the Harman-Lebowitz family owes us for new towels."
John laughed. "At the very least."
On the labour ward, he hung back as Sherlock approached the nurse's station. He had no idea what was going to happen but he desperately needed to see it. When it happened he was torn between mortification and awe.
"Excuse me? Excuse me, ma'am? Sir? Ma'am? Hey, how y'all doing? Great. I understand my little sister Amber was brought in here yesterday? She's having a baby, had a baby, or I guess she's been blessed with two of 'em, praise the Lord. Do y'all know which room she's in? Amber? Amber Call?"
The reaction to the accent happened in tandem with an assessment of his appearance, his gum-chewing earnestness, his filial anxiety, his charm. And they were charmed, the nurses, midwives, medical assistants, male and female alike. Sherlock's looks worked in his favor, which often saved him on those many occasions when all the other failings in his personality did not. In this case the looks worked even better as John realized the coloring and features were similar enough to Amber's at a glance that anyone who'd been in contact with her, however briefly, probably wouldn't question the relationship.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, sir, Miss Call is no longer under our care," said a woman with spiky faded blonde hair.
"We told the other gentleman," an Asian nurse said, jerking his chin in John's direction. Too late to duck out of sight, John tried to disappear into his clothes like a turtle. Sherlock turned and looked right through him. He had no idea who that man with the backpack was and what did this have to do with his sister?
"She's been moved to a private hospital sir. Her and the babies," another nurse said, an older woman, possibly the ward nurse. John couldn't remember all the new scrub colors. Her mouth pinched up ugly when she uttered the word "private" though.
"I don't understand," Sherlock said, "I thought all your hospitals were, y'know…socialized." The last he whispered.
"Well, those with money to spare often prefer to pay. They seem to feel they have better treatment options."
"Really?" said Amber's fake brother, taking a good long look around him. "I don't know. This seems pretty state-of-the-art to me." Ah, he'd hit the mark. The undercurrent of resentment was so palpable it practically walked up and slapped John in the face.
The Asian nurse sniffed. "Well, we are rated highest in the entire country for neo-natal care." He looked to be a special care nurse, hence the special sense of insult. Nobody disses University College Hospital, damn it. "It's what the family wanted. Nothing we can do."
"I'm her family. She's my baby sister and I've been on a plane for ten hours to get here. I just, I really need to see her. Ever since our momma died last year – " He dropped his gaze, blinking back what John could only assume to be tears. Soft sounds of sympathy all around. He'd hooked them proper now. "I need to see her. Her and the babies, they're the only family I got left, can you understand that?"
The nurses exchanged looks and the looks were about more than the secret of Amber's location. They knew she was a surrogate and now suspected her brother didn't have a clue. Pinchy-Mouth looked about to speak, but Asian Special Care said, "No! No way! I'm not dealing with legal over this." He glanced at Sherlock again, "Look, I'm very sorry, I really am, but there've been a lot of extra measures taken recently and we could get sacked for anything that smacks of breech of patient right to privacy, can you understand? It's our jobs on the line."
A young medical assistant huffed in irritation. "This is stupid. And cruel. We can give him a hint. A common knowledge hint." The others looked away quickly, swallowed loudly, cleared throats, and started shuffling things around, leaving the lowest on the rung to take the risk. "You have internet on your mobile?"
"My what?" Sherlock asked. "My cell phone?"
Bloody hell, John thought, the man was so good at this it was almost terrifying.
The woman nodded. "Google the hospital where princesses were born."
And there it was. Sherlock thanked her for her efforts. He turned, caught John's look and winked. The Portland Hospital. Easy peasy.
In the lift, John started laughing. Sherlock tossed the gum in the tiny bin and eyed him quizzically.
"Praise the Lord?"
"What can I say? The spirit moved me."
They were still laughing when the lift doors opened and Sherlock's mobile chirped. A text from Lestrade John figured, from the combination of smug and anticipation on Sherlock's face.
"Are you up for some fun?"
"Yeah. Definitely." John said. "Can we drop this off first?" The backpack, which had become a burden of responsibility he couldn't seem to get shed of.
"Right now? We know where she is. We can drop it off tomorrow." Sherlock was doing things with his phone and waving down a taxi and already somewhere else in his head. "It's a five minute walk from the flat."
So John said okay. He said okay and got into the cab.
The backpack ended up sitting outside the bathroom door for several days. He'd dropped it there when he hopped in the shower, meaning to take it round the hospital as soon as he was dressed again, except of course Sherlock texted, saying he needed his other wallet, the one with questionable assortment of ID's, the one he couldn't be arsed to come get himself.
He rang Portland Hospital twice during that time. The first he was on hold maybe thirty seconds before Sherlock took the phone away and had him blowing into a breathalyzer. The second time he was told Amber had been released and gone home.
"I don't know how she can do that, seeing as how I've got her passports."
"I'm- I'm afraid I don't know what to tell you, sir. She's been released and as far as we know, she's home with her family."
"What family? In Alabama? She just gave birth after a dangerous attempt at self-inducing labour. And you're putting her on a plane back to the US? What the hell?"
"I'm sorry, sir. Who did you say you were again?"
"Doctor John Watson. I was with her when she went into labour. I—"
"Oh. I see. Um. I'm going to put you in contact with our administrative supervisor, all right? Will you hold, please?"
"John! On your left! Watch out!"
So that was the end of that call. And, temporarily, his phone.
A fortnight later, he picked up the backpack and set it decisively on the dining table. "I suppose I could send it to her."
Sherlock didn't respond. He was stretched out on the sofa still in pajamas, an indolent slug with a broadsheet over his face and upper torso. He'd given up reading the paper because it was just soooo boring.
"Passport has her address on it. Maybe? Or something in here with an address. I could ship the whole lot back, right?" Still no response. He unzipped the top and peered inside. A thought occurred, "Did we ever find out what happened to her luggage?"
"Oh my god!" Sherlock exclaimed, whipping the paper from his face in a crushing fist. "What the hell are you going on about?"
He ignored Sherlock's overreaction - it was a lot easier to do that now - and filled with a sudden overwhelming sense of urgency, ran downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson about the cases.
"Oh," she said, after a bit of prompting, "yes, I remember. They were very bright weren't they? No trouble spotting those on the carousel. A driver from Delta airline came, in a van from Gatwick. Nice young man. He picked them up."
"When did this happen?"
"Oh, quite early. Six or so. You two hadn't stirred yet. I was up. I didn't mind."
The very next morning!
"Was it a scheduled pick up, had he been called…?"
"I didn't ask, dear."
"Oh right, well, thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
"You're welcome. Oh, John, could you persuade Sherlock to be out of the flat this evening, or at least ask him not to stomp about and bang on things. I'm having the girls over for cards and he does like to make a nuisance of himself when they're here. He could charm the pants right off of them if he'd a mind." John closed his eyes briefly to shut out the image. "But no," she went on, "he's got to be rude, frighten them out the door. He can be such a—" She stopped then, hand pressed to her chest, frustrated just thinking about it.
"Baby?" John offered.
"I was going to say dick."
"And that as well. I'll try. I'm at work most of the day though. Can't make any promises."
Back in the flat, he told Sherlock about Amber's cases and the airport van first. "I mean, why would she arrange to have her cases taken to the airport, how would she have the time or forethought, when she was here, dosing herself with poison to induce labour?"
Sherlock's brow furrowed. "She wouldn't obviously."
"When I talked to Portland Hospital I was told she'd been released and sent home to be with her family. Her family, Sherlock. Whatever family she has left is in Alabama. And I know for a fact, no ethically responsible doctor would have cleared her for an eight to ten hour flight that soon. The risk of a postpartum infection, particularly in her case, would be a huge concern. Plus, she had no passport."
"Irresponsible doctors can be bought. Emergency passports can be obtained in hours," Sherlock said, but he was only stating facts, not what he thought happened.
John buttoned his collar and looked in the mirror as he knotted his tie. "Something's not right," he said to Sherlock's reflection. "I have a bad feeling about it. I know it's not very exciting, but would you look into it? Find out what happened? I'd like to know she's okay."
He could see Sherlock's baffled expression and he turned around. Probably stopped listening at the mention of feelings.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm filling in for Sarah's friend at that pediatric clinic in Harley Street." He picked up his jacket off the back of the chair. "I told you."
"Was I here?"
John sighed heavily. "Yes. You were. I know my presence, or even my consciousness, isn't required for you to have a conversation with me—"
"How long?"
"Two weeks. The money's too good to pass up. So you'll have to get along without me."
"I got along quite well before you came along."
"Okay then. So you'll look into this Amber thing?"
"John, I said I will."
"You didn't actually, but thanks. Oh, and Mrs. Hudson would like you to stop being dick when her friends are over."
"I'm only trying to keep her honest. She cheats at cards."
He went to work. Found he did not enjoy working with children all that much. But he did meet a lovely woman and ended up getting laid regularly for a while until she got back together with her ex. He'd thought to ask Sherlock about Amber twice in that time. Sherlock never directly said he was pursuing an investigation, but he never said he wasn't either. He'd taken the backpack into his bedroom though, maybe just to keep John from asking.
Out of sight out of mind it seemed. Except for the occasional jerking sudden awareness at moments when he wasn't free to do anything about it, John forgot. After a few weeks even that stopped happening.
Until he saw her body in that filthy red coat and realized he'd never have the luxury of forgetfulness where Amber was concerned. Not for the rest of his life.